11 September 2026
Friday. The napkin is out of the tissue paper. Melbourne, at last.
I have become a waiter. Not a real one, I hasten to add; I cannot carry three plates. A figurative waiter. I glide between the tables, I recommend the specials, I take a great many notes about who ordered what, and I smile in a way that diners will only find odd later, over breakfast, when they put two and two together.
My guests wake on a cold floor somewhere deeper in the house, the hooks overhead swaying gently for atmosphere, and begin to remember their dinner. The nice waiter. The careful notes. And then, as the room’s own billing puts it, they realise I was not serving dinner. I was choosing it.
Tomorrow’s special is a phrase I am extremely pleased with. I have had it embroidered on the napkin.
A word on the venue: Collins Street is very elegant, with a lot of people who know what a good waistcoat is. I feel understood.
— U.
